


terror bingo fill: "snowed in"

by More_night



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, written for the terror bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: In which James and Francis go out to make magnetic observations, find themselves snowed in, briefly walk about in snowshoes, play card games, watch the aurora, converse and learn new things about each other.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 6
Kudos: 84
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	terror bingo fill: "snowed in"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jonnie for help and beta! Thanks to The Terror Bingo people for organizing this! <3

* * *

James waits until the other officers have left the room. "Are you certain it is wise to undertake this journey now? Won't the men feel-..."

Francis quirks an eyebrow at him. "We're not abandoning them, James. We will be gone for two days. Three at most." Francis rolls a map and places it in James's hands. "Besides, it will do Edward good. He'll be in command of the advance party at Terror Camp in but four weeks from now. He can try his hand at it here while we're gone."

James does not mention that Edward has once in the past been in command of _Terror_ \--while Francis was ailing. 

But his hesitation is no match for Francis's candour. "And this time round, he won't be dealing with a ghost ship--or a crippled captain."

"You're unforgiving with yourself, Francis."

Francis's smile is soft. "Perhaps I have a lot to be forgiven for."

James puts the map away with the others. "Then so do I."

  
They leave the morning next in the dawn still dark. The men have not assembled to see them go: most of them are below for breakfast. Some of the officers are there and a few crewmen from the morning watch. The creature has not been sighted near the ships in months now, but this does not set the spirits of the other officers at rest and the faces gathered are drawn and weary. Some of them were still hoping for a thaw. But they are halfway through March and the sun gives them light, yet no warmth.

"Sir, I must inquire a last time," Edward Little says. 

"And I will insist a last time," Francis replies, adjusting the harness across his chest. "It is only six miles north. You have our position. We will return in three days, as planned."

"Sir. Surely we could conduct the required magnetic observations from one of the ships. Will the Society not understand that we were pressed by exceptional circumstances?"

"Edward." Francis grasps Little's shoulders and addresses him much like an older brother would. "We were sent here to perform our duty. Our duty to England and to science. Myself and Captain Fitzjames will do just that. Do not trouble yourself. The men need you strong. They need us all strong."

Edward takes a long, deep breath. It does not do much to calm him, he must confess. But he manages to steel his demeanour some more. When he looks up at Captain Crozier next, he is greeted with a trustful smile. 

"Good," Francis says. 

Le Vesconte will send a party looking for them in four days if they have not returned. The men bid them Godspeed. James pushes his hat down on his wig, sets the rifle strap comfortably on his shoulder and he and Francis start their walk north. They have with them a sledge with a light load: the oak chest with the scientific instruments and logs, a tent with their sacks and blankets, three days worth of meals, water and fuel for the stove. 

  
They have no other company in the early day than the quickly rising sun at their right hand. A dozen times, they stop to cross over ice ridges, unpacking the sledge before the obstacle, carrying all the material over ice blocks the size of a Brighton cottage, and repacking on the other side. At noon, they lunch on split biscuits and eat them standing, stomping their feet. 

Francis is refilling their canteens when James draws his attention to the sky.

Francis glances up. He lowers his ice goggles, as James has done before him, thinking his eyes might be tricked by their colouration. 

They are not: dark, heavy clouds have begun to gather on the horizon, coming from the west. The sky was as clear as a polished mirror just this morning with nothing to move the ships' housings except a quiet eastern wind. 

Francis examines the compass: they have not deviated from their course. "If our step count is right, we are no more than two miles from our goal. If we hurry, we'll be able to set up camp before it reaches us."

"Any chance it might pass over and above us, you reckon?"

Francis smiles crookedly. "With our luck so far on this expedition?"

  
They walk the last mile in an hour at a determined pace as a light snow begins, calmly at first, the flakes then needling their cheeks in the wicked wind. They put the tent up as quickly as they can and empty the sledge of its essentials before attaching its wooden frame to a nearby hummock. They close the flap shut as the wind picks up and the menacing hum of the storm approaches. 

They first busy themselves with writing down their earlier observations of the temperature and winds. The dipping needle's brass apparatus is suspended from the tent's summit, and its variations noted. But eventually, the attacks of the gale on their tent become too violent and the remaining measurements must be reserved for the next day. 

Francis heats a tin of soup while James writes down the results of their first round of observations in the log by the lamp light. 

The few spoonfuls of soup, the cup of hot tea and today's efforts ought to have put them both to sleep. Yet, after they have put out their light, both of them lay rigidly on their backs. 

"You're not sleeping," Francis says in the darkness. 

"Sleep has not come easily to me in over a year," James admits, "I thought some exertion might do the trick. But all it's done is make my bones hurt."

"Over a year?"

James's voice drops even though they are alone. "Scurvy. Probably in its early stage still. Harry tells me not to worry yet. Some of our men endure worse."

The wind howls outside and drums the canvas of their tent. 

"Are you concerned?" 

"No," James says after a moment. "Although--I'd like..." He falters.

"What?" Francis tries to see through the dark, but he cannot so much as tell James's profile from the surrounding blackness. 

"I would like it back. The sleep. I miss-... The dreams, I miss the dreams."

Through his sack, Francis feels for James's arm. He squeezes it for the little comfort it might bring. 

  
Francis's head kept filling with thoughts and memories over night, passing in a most incongruous order and giving him no rest. He becomes aware he has slept only when James rouses him. 

James sits tangled in his sack, blanket and coat, just awoken. His eyes are sunken.

"Francis. The gale."

The wind is certainly gone: their tent no longer shakes with it. It is morning. But the sunlight filtering through the canvas is odd, as if it reaches them through a much thicker cover. 

Francis gets up and reaches for the tent flap. He opens it only enough that he can get a glimpse of the outside. He is met with a wall of snow. 

  
To exit their tent, they dig a passage with planks torn from their crate of provisions. 

The landscape around them looks nothing like the ice they have crossed yesterday. The sky is of the clearest blue. James and he look around. The snow reaches their chin. All the way to the horizon, there is nothing but a white blanket, with the edges of distant ice ridges peeking out like the crests of waves. 

Francis gathers some snow from the topmost layer in his mitten--it is flaky and soft. 

He and James start to enlarge the clearing: they have left their ice picks and their pair of snowshoes on the sledge. It is buried in a snowdrift now. They dig it out, then take it apart with care. Tied together, the runners make a decent mast, rising five feet above the snow cover. They unstitch a canvas bag and attach it to the top of their improvised flag. It will let the party know where the tent is.

They pause for tea under the midday sun. They both know it is better not to worry the men on _Terror_ and _Erebus_. One of them shall trek back to the ships in snowshoes. 

"Are you sure?"

James nods. "What I will lose in speed, I will gain on account of travelling light, having no sledge with me. I will reach the ships by midnight, barely after sundown. The men will not have to fret about our absence. I will return for you with a whole party."

When James has readied himself--wig, hat, rifle, Francis's comforter wrapped tightly around his neck over his own scarf--Francis insists that he should take a second pack of rifle bullets. 

James weighs the heavy casing doubtfully. "We haven't seen it in weeks. Months even."

"A precaution."

James casts a look at the overwhelming white plains that surround them, then at the rifle and two packs of ammunition Francis will keep here for himself. "Bullets have not done Sir John much good," he says in part to himself. But he takes them from Francis's hands and, Francis helping, clambers to the top of the snow cover. Even with the snowshoes, he sinks a good six inches. His steps are awkward, not unlike those of a flightless penguin. Yet James manages to make them seem deliberate and careful.

Francis watches him go. 

  
James has quickly lost sight of their encampment--the peak of their tent like a distant island, Francis's head a tiny dot beside it. 

He has tried his best to hide from Francis the ravages of scurvy. Although he does suspect some knowledge of it caused Francis's insistent questions whether James should be the one to return to the ships to signal their predicament. Francis is a steadier walker if slower than him. But the journey back to the ships--alone--and part of it at dusk is too great a risk. Francis's disappearance would deal too strong a blow to the men's morale. 

James's optimism becomes clouded when he pauses and digs the compass and watch from underneath his many layers. The cumbersome snowshoes must have slowed him down more than he expected. Worse--he has drifted east of due south, adding at least half a mile to his path. 

He breathes a curse, aimed at some imagined personification of his confidence that looks much like his younger self. 

He sips from his canteen and starts again. 

From somewhere behind him, the cry erupts in the white desert like a cannon shot. The tuunbaq is coming.

  
After seeing James depart, Francis has returned inside their tent. James's estimate of his journey has likely been optimistic--Francis had not wanted to insist too markedly on the contrary to preserve James's pride. But he should still reach the ships before tomorrow. Though the ideas have not yet taken the better outlined shape of emotions, Francis mourns James's sudden absence and hopes that he reaches his destination safely. 

To keep his mind occupied as his wait for the rescue party starts he sorts their belongings, checks the remaining lamp oil, makes a tidy stack of their provisions. Then with a few curses under his breath for the London men of science, currently seated half a world away in their warm drawing rooms, he sets up the dipping needle again. 

In the log, James's handwriting is graceful and easy. Below it, Francis's tight calligraphy appears tedious. 

He hears the tuunbaq's cry in the distance. He drops the pencil and reaches for his rifle. 

He stands outside, helpless, his chest level with the bank of snow. He stays there, the metal of the gun growing cold. There is nothing more to hear--no other cries, no shots fired. 

After an impossibly long time, he glimpses a point on the horizon. It is not moving quickly enough to be the creature. 

Francis yells James's name again and again. He throws himself forward, but sinking to his waist he can scarcely advance at all. 

When James finally reaches him, he collapses into his arms, out of breath, covered in snow.

The creature is nowhere to be seen. Francis remains stock-still for minutes and minutes, James's warm exhale on his neck. 

The violent effort of his run back has at last allowed James to sleep. Meanwhile, Francis sat watching, adding extra kindling to the stove. 

It is near evening when James wakes. His hair, wet with melted snow, has dried while he rested. The hazelnut curls look fiery in the lamp light. 

James eyes the stove and its high flame. "The fuel..."

"Think not of it." Francis takes down James's shirt and trousers from the line suspended above. "We can burn the crates if needed."

James lies back in his sack, his head pillowed on the heap made of their spare clothes. He notices the two snowshoes tucked in a corner of the tent. He has damaged one during his retreat. 

Francis catches his gaze at the torn leather strap. "We can repair them later. It's only chance you did not sprain your foot."

"How will we return to the ships?"

"The temperature is dropping. The snow might freeze to a more solid state. Then we can walk back just the way we came. Both of us."

James swallows. "What if it's waiting for us?"

  
The temperature does drop--in fact it sinks much lower than Francis anticipated. With the morning comes the harshest cold they have known since February past. The snow has hardened, yes, but in this cold, the trek back might kill them.

By the evening, they have decided to spare the stove fuel they have left: the cold has not ceased, the wind has returned and the party from the ships might be delayed. 

To keep his idle mind from the anxious suspense of their confinement, James sketches in a notebook, wig and gloves on. 

"Do you know whist?" Francis asks.

"Of course, I do."

From his coat, Francis pulls a pack of cards. "Would you teach me?"

James quirks an eyebrow. "You've never played it?"

Francis smiles. Shakes his head. Cards are not his preferred pastime, but he fears his thoughts will collapse if he cannot focus them on some work or other.

Whist has four players, divided in two pairs of partners: they are only two and must make do. But the easiest way to learn whist, James tells him, is to first learn from a partner. 

They set their game up on the chest containing their scientific material. James places the lamp and his notebook to face them, and figure their two opposite partners. Bundled up in their overcoats, Francis and he huddle together under the blankets. 

"I shall be the one dealing," James announces. "Since you sit to my left, you must shuffle the cards."

Once the cards are shuffled, James deals the four partners in turn until all have thirteen cards. 

  
They are about to start the second trick when James notices Francis's absent stare. 

"What is it?"

"Sophia attempted to teach me whist," Francis admits. "Many times, actually. It could never quite stick in my head," Francis says. "The fault is not in any way on her, though. I... I didn't listen."

"Why learn it now?" 

Francis ponders while considering the hand he holds. Why indeed? What good can a fancy salon amusement do him, an Irish sailor stranded in the Arctic North? Once again, Francis is cornered by his greatest flaw: no words other than candid ones come to him. 

He clears his throat. His cheeks redden with a blush. "It came to me that there are many things you may yet teach me." 

James's eyes remain on him, the rest of him inscrutable. 

He draws Francis's attention back to their hands. He nods at the trick on the table. "Now, what card will you be playing on this one?"

Francis eyes the trick, the blush slowly fading. "A... spade."

"Good. I'll play first. You might want to follow suit."

They play long into the night. By the end of it, Francis is an honest beginner--although he still needs James's advice on whether a trump card has appeared. 

  
Francis is woken by a fluttering sound. The sun has not risen yet, but outside the sky is anything but dark. Francis opens the flap: the aurora roams in streams and serpents in the heavens above. 

The cold seems less biting than yesterday. The snow will have softened again.

James joins him, his features worn with exhaustion. The golds and greens of the aurora glide over his face, accentuating the lines and edges so that he seems more like a carved marble to which motion was supernaturally granted. 

"I must say--I didn't believe in their sounds myself," he says, observing the streaks of light above. It was difficult to match the sound reaching their ears with the lights their eyes attempted to follow.

"To my knowledge, there is nothing to account for it." Francis arches an eyebrow. "But then--there is no accounting for most of what we have seen here."

They sit to contemplate the light and listen to its mysterious natural symphony. James brings out their log and notes down the observation and the disturbance of their compasses. 

"Do not fret so about Edward, Francis," he says, having noticed the worry solidifying Francis's features like a mask while he believed James to be looking away. "They will come in their own time. Armed to the teeth, if we know anything about Edward. Ready to reckon with the creature."

"Hm. We have not heard it again," Francis points out as if he has been shaken out of a distraction.

"Perhaps it's gone on its way then. Perhaps it was a mere bear."

Francis chuckles at the expression of a polar bear being a minor enemy. Then the same stillness, which James had mistaken for worry, comes to his face. "I was not fretting," Francis says. "I was thinking that Barrow may well have been right."

"Barrow? John Barrow?" James says, brow knitting. 

Francis nods. 

"About what? The passage?"

"About the command of this expedition."

"What?"

Francis examines James's incredulous expression. It crosses his mind that James may have known how vigorous John Barrow's petitions in his favour had been, but that perhaps he had expected them to remain shrouded in some secrecy. "You thought I didn't know?" Francis smiles. "Ross told me, while I was staying with him. He's quite the gossip."

James swallows carefully. "Did Sir John know, you think?"

"I'm not certain. He did know he was not their first choice."

To stifle his thoughts, James returns wordlessly into the tent to put the log and pencil back. The tightening of his jaw gives away how restless his mind is. 

Francis joins him inside.

"If I'd been in command--Francis, can you fathom the disaster? I would have done all that Sir John has done. More speedily, if anything."

"James--"

"Sail due West until as far as the Arctic sea went, I thought. Straight into the channel of pack ice, I suppose. And then what? No..." He shakes his head. Francis takes a hold of his arm. "I thought myself an adventurer. It is worse still that Barrow thought me such as well..."

"James," Francis insists. "That is not how I meant it."

"How did you mean it?" James says with a frantic air, one usually worn by those who have thought certain thoughts of self-reproach too often and too loudly.

"How good a commander you would have been. What a better leader of men than I you are." Francis pauses. James listens intently. "How unlikely it is that I would have thought this not so long ago." He scoffs. "How inflexible I was."

James flexes his fingers. "Men may change."

"We might be living the last of our days and I'm grateful--happy to live them in your company," Francis says, afraid only that his words do not measure up to the height of his sentiments. 

James answers not. The aurora has faded. The sun will rise soon. Francis finally gestures at the canteen by James's side. "I'll get some snow to melt." 

James nods. His face seems to be a thin cover for the tensions moving below.

"Francis."

Francis stops. 

"I may not share your appraisal of me. But do hear this--I need you." 

James reaches out. The gesture is blind. He grasps Francis's sleeve. His hand moves to his wrist. 

"I am not as strong as I appear," he says. 

"Nor am I."

Hesitant and desperate, James brushes a lock of hair from Francis's temple. A deep flow of emotions unspeakable rises in Francis. Nothing in him attempts to obstruct it. 

James's hand cups his chin and he kisses him. 

Francis is too stunned to react. 

James lets go, lips parted, breathing shallow. His expression becomes filled with urgency--the panic that precedes an apology. He straightens, taking Francis's stoicism for a dismissal. 

But he is held back. Francis's hand has twined over James's wrist. Having only a vague idea of what it is he agrees to, Francis nods slowly. 

  
James takes Francis's overcoat and sets it aside. 

They settle in Francis's sack, their legs tangled together like the roots of a tree.

Francis's steady gaze does not leave James as he unbuttons their clothes. Confined as they are, the glow of the dawn is just enough for Francis to get a glimpse of his jaw, his collarbones, his ribcage, his hips, the curly hair below and his prick rising from it. 

James runs his nose along Francis's cheek. "Do you know what you would like, Francis?"

Francis lets out a shaky breath. "I was never asked that."

James kisses him, as Francis rests his hands tentatively on his chest. "We shall find out then." 

Francis finds that James's mouth on his stiff prick makes his heart hammer in his chest. He pushes James's hair back so he can see the hold of his lips on him. 

Arousal pulls so strongly at him that Francis cannot for sure discern its source--is it their past enmity or this unadulterated devotion, or is it that they might both die or that they might both survive? 

"Up." He grasps James shoulders. "Up. Here." He kisses James's reddened lips with abandon while James's hand strokes them both. 

  
They drink meltwater, naked under their piled blankets. Both of them smell the same mixture of sweat and damp, unwashed wool. 

"Today is the fourth day," James says. 

Francis hums a yes. "Edward and Henry will wait until dawn tomorrow to send out a party. They won't risk sending men out in the dark."

"Do you think the creature will return?"

Francis huffs. "Let it come. We're still strong enough."

In the night, the lamp's flame dims, then it flickers and dies. 

  
Henry Le Vesconte leads the party that comes for them. The men bring provisions, clothes and snowshoes for both of them. 

From Henry they learn that the ships have been mostly spared by the storm. 

"And the creature?" Francis inquires. "Was it sighted?"

Le Vesconte gives ample shakes of his silvery head. "No, sir. Not a trace or a sound."

  
The rescue party returns them to the _Erebus_ by nightfall. A signal is sent to _Terror_ that both of them were recovered safely, but that, as they are in need of rest, the _Terror_ 's captain will stay until morning.

At dawn, the subtly different echoes of the subtly different rounds of men on a ship not his own wake Francis from a light sleep. He dresses in clean clothes and, stepping out, finds James in the great cabin, freshly changed as well. 

James's eyes linger on Francis as he walks in. "Good morning, Francis," he says, perhaps softer than he might have done some days prior. 

Francis moves forward, hand raised to rest on James's forearm. 

James stops him. "Mr Bridgens will be here presently with tea."

Just as Francis is nodding, putting all the warmth he can in so simple a gesture, Mr Bridgens politely clears his throat behind them.

"How are you feeling, sir?" the steward asks Francis, setting down their tray. 

Due to his weakened state or to his emotional turmoil, Francis's thoughts are so loud that he can barely suppress them: I feel much like a youth again, discovering affections I had never known existed. 

"Much restored, thank you," he says. 

Bridgens turns to James for the same morning assessment. The pallor of James's forehead and cheeks only gives his eyes a brighter shine. "I am well, John. I believe I may be more hopeful today than I have been in some time."

"Mr Bridgens?" Francis calls. 

"Sir?"

"Any chance you could rustle up a pack of cards for us?"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. What I actually know about whist would probably not cover more than two square inches if I spread it out neatly. If, however, you want to learn all about it, I suggest Hoyle's 1835 _Games_. 
> 
> 2\. The sounds of aurorae are apparently [like radio static](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/news/2016/06/auroras-sounds-noises-explained-earth-space-astronomy/).


End file.
